100 poems and short stories

4. The Blade

In his hands, lies a blade,

A weapon which has weighed,

The right, the wrong, which has slayed,

Thou who has never prayed,

Never has it come to aid, but rather has played,

Not with the ace of spade,

No, colourless corpses were laid,

Instead, goodbyes forever were made.

Death was what it portrayed,

Be prepared to be betrayed,

Not only has he dismayed,

His murders are also all displayed,

In his state of mind, on not one occasion has he felt afraid,

He started with one accolade,

It turned to five and soon fifty, to invade,

Him, his dark soul, his passionate crimes, his escapade.

Even if blood was his arcade,

His assassinations arrayed,

No one could persuade,

His black thoughts to fade,

His desires were never to be allayed,

So nobody ever forbade,

And he was left there and decayed,

Alone with his blade.

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